


This is Success

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-05
Updated: 2008-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Success

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: Success

I stumble down the stairs a little after seven in the morning, and my nose leads me unerringly to the coffee urn in the kitchen. I pour a steaming mug and inhale the scent deeply. There's nothing like fresh brewed coffee first thing in the morning. I make my way to the fridge so I can toss a dollop of milk into the mug, and then I take a sip. Perfection. I'm finally able to open my eyes.

I squint over at Brian, who is watching me from his regular place at the table, a look of amusement on his face. His plate of soft boiled eggs is already half eaten, his tie loose at his neck. His briefcase will already be perched on the solid oak bench in the hallway, waiting patiently for him like an old dog.

"Good?" he asks.

I mumble something -- my lips are not capable of forming actual words yet -- and reach for the loaf of bread on the counter.

Brian holds up a bread and butter plate laden with crisp and warm toasted rye. "Already made," he tells me.

"I love you," I say as I reach greedily for the toast.

He just smiles and goes back to his paper.

Ten minutes later, I've eaten four slices of toast covered in thick marmalade and had two cups of strong coffee, and am actually feeling human again. "What time is your meeting?" I ask Brian.

"Ten."

I nod and lean back in my chair. He'll miss the rush hour traffic, which I know has the tendency to drive him insane. The one disadvantage to living in the country is the commute. "I can't believe you convinced them to come to you."

He raises his eyebrows at me over his paper. "They want Kinnetik? They can come to Kinnetik."

"Yeah," I say, "but they're the number one bottled water company in the country."

"In North America," Brian corrects me. "And they can still come to me."

I love his confidence. I smile and snag the last piece of toast. "I'm going to catch a ride with you this morning."

Brian nods, then glances at the clock hanging above the archway. "Then you'd better go shower, Sunshine. Isn't your meeting at nine?"

"Shit!" I shove the rest of the toast in my mouth as I'm dashing for the stairs. No time for a shower. I brush my hair and teeth. Clothes, shoes, cell phone, portfolio. I'm halfway back down the front staircase when I realize I forgot the new panels that I've been working on for _Rage_. I run headlong into my studio and shove them in my bag before racing back downstairs just in time to meet Brian at the front door. He already has my jacket.

"Thanks," I tell him as I shrug into it.

"You realize that you do this about once a week."

I shrug. "I'm not a morning person."

* * *

Alphonse Delverro is sharp. My agent is sharper.

Our meeting, tentatively expectedly to last forty-five minutes, lasts well over two hours. At the end of it all, I agree to provide 20 paintings for the latest showing in his gallery, a concept "event" involving myself, a sculptor from Italy, and a metallurgist from New York. He had wanted 25. He agrees to take 25 percent commission on anything I sell. His initial offer was 35 percent. He signs on for complete advertising costs in the local and national papers, as well as the New York art rags. And he covers the cost of pamphlets and invitations, too.

His assistant promises to have the paperwork drawn up by the end of the day.

Outside the Delverro Gallery, I shake Hal's hand. "You," I tell him, "are the best agent in the universe."

Hal blushes. Razor-sharp and taking no prisoners when dealing with facts and figures and playing with the big gallery owners, he's a softie with his clients. His cheeks rapidly colour to match his fire-engine red hair. "Only because you're so good at what you do."

I don't blush. I _am_ good at what I do.

When Hal and I separate at the corner, I check my watch. Eleven thirty-five is a little too early for lunch, but I decide to head over to Kinnetik anyway. If I set a good pace, I can be there by twelve fifteen.

I walk faster than usual and reach Kinnetik at 12:10. The new receptionist has his head buried in a file cabinet, but Cynthia spots me loitering in the reception area. "He's not here," she tells me.

I arch a brow, and she moves closer. "He took them out to lunch."

I take her elbow and move her away from the desk and the eager ears of the receptionist. They go through receptionists practically faster than Brian and I go through a box of condoms… okay, not that fast, but almost. I just don't know how much this guy should hear. I bite my lip. "Is it going well?"

Cynthia lifts a shoulder. "Hard to say. Brian's oozing confidence, but he always does."

True.

"He took Ted with him," she continues.

I frown. I have no idea what that means. "Is that a good sign?"

"It must mean they want to go over the numbers," Cynthia tells me. "I know they're asking for a guaranteed twenty five percent sales increase. That's a pretty big promise of return, especially for a boutique firm."

"Can Kinnetik do it?"

Cynthia smiles at me, shark like. "Kinnetik can do anything," she says with conviction. "And Brian will make sure the profit margin well exceeds our expectations."

I nod. Stick my hands in the pockets of my jeans. "Well," I say, "tell him I was here."

"I will," she says. "And Justin? Cross your fingers. I promised myself a pair of classic Manolo patent leathers if we nail this one."

* * *

I find Michael deep in conversation with a customer in the store. Something about death rays and sinister eels and mutant zombies and a superhero. Of course a superhero.

I hoist myself onto the counter and snag some candy out of the jar by the register as I wait. It's only the second time I've been at Red Cape since the expansion, and I'm still not used to seeing that staircase floating in the middle of the room, and the huge stretch of comics and comic paraphernalia beyond it. Seems like only yesterday that it was a crowded and dark little place. Now it's practically Comics R Us.

"Hey," Michael says a few minutes later. "Sorry. That guy is a total _Geek Patrol_ nerd. Of course," he laughs, "so am I, so we had to talk about the latest issue. We're pretty sure they're going to reveal that one of the _Patrol_ is gay."

I raise a brow. Gay characters aren't exactly rare in comic books. It's the way they're depicted that pisses me off. "Are they going to follow that up by having him mince around in heels or get graphically raped and killed in the next issue?"

Michael frowns. "Fuck, I hope not. We can only hope our campaign with the editors has been effective."

"Yeah," I say, just as the bell above the door rings again. There's at least five or six customers in the store. I remember when Michael was lucky to have five or six in a day. I swing my legs and snatch another candy out of the jar. Things are addictive. "You going to have time for this?"

"Hey!" A hand comes up suddenly and grabs the candy out of my fingers. "Those aren't free, you know."

I grit my teeth. "Hunter."

He slaps his gym bag on the counter, and grins smarmily. "Home from college," he announces, "and ready to earn my way by toiling in the family store. Because I long to show my commitment to keeping Red Cape Comics running well into the twenty first century, and because there is nothing more important than earning an honest days pay for an honest days work."

"And because Ben and I said we wouldn't finance your new car unless you worked here for the summer," Michael says dryly.

"That too," Hunter says.

"Watch everybody," Michael tells Hunter. He lowers his voice. "Don't let anybody steal anything. And keep the till locked at all times."

"I have worked here before, dude."

Michael shakes his head. "Don't remind me. I lost more inventory than I sold."

"I was distracted," Hunter protests. "I was going through some shit. This time, I won't let you down."

Michael smiles and nods before turning his attention to me. "Come on," he says, directing me to the back office. "We can work back here. I've got some really neat ideas for the dialogue for the presidential villain."

"I've got some rough sketches," I tell him, hopping down off the counter. "I'm not sure how far we can go with likenesses without risking a lawsuit." I've taken a couple of steps away from the counter when I feel Hunter's hand gripping my arm.

"Hey, dude," he says when I look back, "it's twenty five cents for that candy."

I pull a five out of my wallet and slap it into his palm. "Keep the change," I say. "Buy yourself some zit cream."

* * *

It's late by the time I leave Red Cape, so I hop a taxi to get back to Kinnetik. The receptionist desk is empty this time, and there's no sign of Cynthia. I head down the hall to Brian's office, opening the door slightly and peeking my head inside.

"It's clear," I hear him say.

Brian is sitting straight up at his desk, punching rapidly at his keyboard. He glances up when I walk in the room, finishes up with something, and then leans back in his leather chair. There's no sign of tension or disappointment in his features, but there wouldn't be. Not yet. "Well?" he says.

"What the fuck do you mean, _well_?"

He arches a brow. "The gallery? The upcoming show? Do these things ring a bell, Sunshine?"

"Fuck the gallery," I say. "Did you get the contract?"

Brian smiles. "Did you?"

"20 pieces, 25 percent commission, no overhead costs. I kick ass," I tell him proudly. "Aaaand…"

"Kinnetik is now the sole print and multimedia advertiser for the largest bottled water company in North America." He leans further back in his chair, grinning. "And since I, Brian Kinney, _am_ Kinnetik, I suppose that means that I, too, kick ass."

I round his desk and pull him up by his tie, plant a kiss on his lips. "You do a lot of other really great things with ass, too," I tell him.

He presses his lips together. "Mmmm."

I reach down and rub his lengthening cock through his expensive dress pants. "Care to show me what you've got, Mr. Kinney?" I murmur.

Brian leans down to nip at my neck, his teeth grazing over that sensitive spot that makes me arch my back and have to bite down on a moan. Too late, I remember that I didn't lock his door. Brian's hands find their way quickly below the waistband of my jeans and he kneads at my ass, jerking me closer to his body, while his mouth fastens on my neck hard enough to leave a bruise. To mark me.

This time I do moan. Fuck the door.

Then he stops.

"What the fuck?" I mutter. I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and urge him to resume, but he pulls away reluctantly, dragging his hands out of my jeans and leaning back against his desk. His hard-on tents his trousers, making me about ten times hotter than I already am.

"We have to go," he tells me.

"But--" Then I remember. "Shit," I say. "What time is it?"

"It doesn't start until six thirty," he reminds me. "We can make it."

* * *

Gus will never be the star player on a major league team, but for a Little League pitcher he kicks his own kind of ass.

"Heyyyyyyy batter batter Heyyyyyyy batter batter Heyyyyyyy," Mel shouts from the sidelines, trying to distract the cute little girl in pigtails from the opposing team that's currently up at bat.

Lindsay nudges her on the shoulder. "Mel," she hisses, "I've told you you're not allowed to do that at Little League games! You're going to get us kicked out again!"

"Well, fuck," Melanie says, slumping back in her seat. "What's the fun if you can't heckle?"

"The fun," Lindsay says, "is watching your son on the plate."

"Linds," Brian says pompously, "I believe that's the mound."

"Mound, plate," Lindsay says, rolling her eyes. "Whatever."

Brian looks at me. "You'd think after three years she'd have learned the lingo."

"Not everybody memorized baseball stats from the last ten years and the entire team roster of the Pittsburgh Steelers," I tell him.

Brian sighs. "For the last time," he says, "The Pirates are the baseball team. The Steelers are the football team."

I wince. I always get that one wrong. It just doesn't make sense to me. I mean, in baseball you can steal a base, so the baseball team should clearly be The Steelers. Logic, people.

Luckily, Brian can't berate me for my lack of knowledge because Gus chooses that moment to strike out little pigtail girl. She runs happily off to the bleachers, and Gus's entire team runs out to the field to celebrate. The teams are always running out to the field to celebrate. They'll celebrate someone catching a ball, someone hitting a ball, someone not getting called out. It's the first of three innings and the score is already 10 to 7 in favour of pigtail girl's team.

By the end of the game, my hands will hurt from clapping so much, and my face will ache from smiling. I never really thought seriously about wanting kids, but I'm glad I sort of inherited one.

* * *

By the time we get home after taking the teams out for ice cream, it's nearing ten o'clock. And I'm exhausted.

I drop my jacket on the floor inside the door and head straight up the stairs. Behind me, I hear Brian's jacket joining it. I start stripping as I'm walking, dropping each article of clothing wherever I happen to be. My shirt falls on the second floor landing; my shoes I toe off in the upstairs hallway. I'd shuck off the jeans en route, too, if it wasn't more convenient to sit down on the long cream coloured bench in the bathroom and remove them there.

I reach the bathroom before Brian does, but the removal of my jeans slows me down, and Brian gets to the shower stall before me. He turns the water on as hot as we can stand it and steps inside. I join him and together we stand under the punishing spray.

I close my eyes and turn my face up to the water. "Feels good," I murmur.

Brian presses in close behind me; bends his head to nip at the shell of my ear. His long fingers bear down on my hip. I lean back fully into his embrace, trusting in his firm hold on me to keep me upright. "Remember," I say, "when we used to be able to be busy all day long, and then stay up and drink and party at Babylon all night?"

Brian lifts his lips away from sucking the water from my neck. "We still can," he says confidently. He rests his chin against my shoulder. "We simply choose not to."

I smile and turn around in his arms. Grab a bar of soap and run it down his arms, over his chest. He leans down to again suck at my neck, and I drop the soap. "Wasn't there something you were going to show me," I say, "back at the office?"

He leans back to watch me, his smile now predatory and dark. "Sure you can handle it?" he asks huskily.

"Give me what you've got, Kinney," I tell him with a smile.

* * *

"Did you set the alarm?" I ask him minutes after we've gotten into bed.

"I always set the alarm," he answers. He's on his back with his arm draped over his eyes. He doesn't check the alarm but I know he's right. He always sets it, and I always ask.

I slide over to hook my leg over his knee, lay my arm over his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, beneath my palm. I turn my face into the pillow, and snuggle down. Warm and soft. Sated and happy.

"Good night, Brian," I say, my voice muffled.

His left hand comes up to cover mine. His thumb caressing my hand gently is the last thing I feel before I sleep.


End file.
